


All of My Misspoken Words

by subjunctive



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dreamsharing, F/M, Modern Westeros, mystery-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 23:16:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11542473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: Jon hasn't talked to his soulmate in ten years, until she shows up at the precinct, looking for him.





	All of My Misspoken Words

**Author's Note:**

> This has been an ongoing snippet series on my tumblr under the [#jonsa soulmates au](http://subjunctivemood.tumblr.com/tagged/jonsa-soulmates-au) tag. I decided to post the first little arc since that was done. It's been a bit polished from the original bits, only small changes. I take prompts for this 'verse at my tumblr, and I'll still be updating there with snippets along the way.
> 
> I shamelessly ripped this concept off another fic, an Arya/Gendry story by crossingwinter called "Dream Until Your Dreams Come True." I don’t know if the concept originated with them or elsewhere, but credit where credit’s due. Also, it’s a great fic.

_One more hour,_ Jon tells himself. _One more and that’s it._ The problem is, there’s nothing conducive to staying awake about desk work late at night. Or rather early in the morning. If he worked first or second shift, then he could go on patrol, interview people, do something interesting. Something active. Sometimes that does happen in the third shift, but not always, and not tonight. Tonight has been one hundred percent paperwork and boredom. People are always surprised when Jon tells them how much policework is just paperwork.

“Time for trashketball,” Pyp announces, slapping Jon on the back. “Unless you want to take a nap?”

Jon shakes his head adamantly. No napping. He’s made that mistake before. Even just a few minutes of overlap is a few too many.

He rubs his hands together, mimes enthusiasm. “You just want me to take a nap because then you won’t have any real competition.”

Pyp whoops and everyone gathers around the trash can in shuffles of varying awake-ness. It’s a simple game: they all take turns tossing crumpled paper balls into the can from increasing distances. If you miss, you lose and you’re out.

It’s a dumb game, but Jon likes the third shift guys he works with. Most are rookies stuck with the night shift until they work their way up. They’ll be glad to get out of here, to get back to a normal sleeping schedule and back to dreaming with their soulmates.

Captain Mormont is always bugging Jon about moving up, getting off the career-killing graveyard shift, but Jon dug in his heels years ago: he works nights or he quits. Others are more like Jon. Cotter Pyke hates his soulmate’s guts and never wants to dream with them. Uncle Benjen, who led the night shift when Jon started at the station, didn’t have a soulmate at all. Neither did Ygritte, which had been at least part of what attracted Jon to her: that she did her own thing, was beholden to no one. That’s what Jon says, too, when people ask. They always do, especially when they learn he works at night and offer their sympathies. _That must be so difficult. How lonely. You poor thing._

But Jon knows otherwise. What’s actually difficult is when he fucks up and nods off at his desk, and he’s catapulted into her dreams. Even catching a glimpse of her makes him see red– _ha, ha_. His body has learned to jerk awake at the first sign of her dark auburn hair. It was especially hard when she was in college and started partying, staying up late and sleeping in late enough to catch up with him. Sometimes she was still drunk enough that she tried to _explain_ –as if he hadn’t understood her perfectly well–but in a drunk, self-absorbed, rambling way that made it clear nothing about her had really changed. He spent many of those Saturdays perpetually exhausted from trying to avoid her, and a few recently too.

Grenn wins trashketball, like he always does. It’s his reach, Pyp claims, every single time, and argues they should institute a special penalty for him and giants like him. By the time Jon looks at a clock again, it’s almost time to go. He and Sam organize everything to hand off to the day shift and head out together, Jon tugging down his sunglasses as they step outside.

“You’ve been more tired than usual lately,” Sam observes.

Sam’s the only one who knows about his soulmate and why he avoids her, so Jon admits the truth. “She’s started taking naps in the afternoon. It’s messing with me.”

“Maybe she wants to talk to you.”

Jon gives a short laugh. “About what? Everything’s been said.”

_There’s been some mistake. It can’t be you. It just can’t._

Sam gives a shrug, not committing to Jon’s interpretation of events. It’s annoying, but also very Sam in a way that Jon is fond of. Sam’s a nice guy. Nicer than him, for sure. Good at keeping an open mind, and unwilling to judge strangers on the words of friends. Jon respects that. In a weird way, he thinks that might be the reason he told Sam in the first place. As much as the memory of their first dream together makes him grind his teeth, Jon isn’t interested in a bunch of people who don’t know her, even his friends, bagging on her. Even if they would say all the things he’s thought in the past (what a bitch).

“You know, there are people who think there aren’t any pre-existing connections between soulmates at all,” Sam offers.

Jon frowns. “How would that work?”

“They suggest that who we dream with may just be random–that people make connections based on the dreams, not because of fate or the gods or any other outside force.”

“That’s nihilistic of you. Don’t let Gilly hear you say that.” Jon laughs.

“I didn’t say I agreed with it,” counters Sam. “But–I don’t think it’s nihilistic at all. It’s all about what we make of it, isn’t it? We already know having a soulmate doesn’t predestine you for a life full of happiness and perfection. Case in point.”

“Hey, now,” Jon protests. “My life is just fine, thanks.”

Sam’s look is politely skeptical.

“Besides, if it doesn’t matter, then it doesn’t matter, right?” 

“I’m only saying, maybe you should resolve whatever it is between you. Maybe you’re not going to get married and have five kids and live happily ever after–lots of soulmates don’t, you know, they’re best friends or mortal enemies or just someone who changes your life–but if you’re nothing to each other, that’s on you too. It’s what you make of it.”

“That was her choice.”

“Yours, too. You sort of let her make it, didn’t you? And you’ve avoided every opportunity to change it.”

Jon scowls. “That’s assuming she does want to talk to me at all. Maybe she just really likes naps.”

“Naps are wonderful,” Sam allows, letting the subject go. “Gilly takes them in the afternoon with the baby, while I’m asleep too. It’s nice.”

“Well, go on then, enjoy your perfect life.” They’ve arrived. Jon waves Sam up to his apartment building, and smiles to take the sting out. “You deserve it.”

Sam’s words stick with Jon on his walk home, churning. For four blocks, he thinks of other things he might have said, rebuttals and counterarguments, all illuminating and perfectly persuasive. Then it’s nothing but blissful, uninterrupted, dreamless sleep.

* * *

“She’s been here for a while. Only wanted to speak to you,” Pyp explains as Jon comes in the next day, bleary-eyed with his red-eye coffee.

“They didn’t call me?”

“She said she was happy to wait. Wouldn’t talk to anyone else.” Pyp shrugs. “Get this, though, she’s a total babe. I didn’t know you knew any babes, Snow.”

Jon tries to think of who it could be, and fails. The only person that comes to mind is Val, and everyone here knows Val. “What’s her name?”

“Wouldn’t tell us. Weird, right? But we patted her down. She doesn’t have anything to kill you with, we’re _pretty_ sure.”

It is weird, he has to admit. Until he rounds the corner into the bullpen and sees her sitting by his desk and understands exactly in a flash of insight why she didn’t tell anyone her name. The coffee slips from his hand and spatters on the floor as Jon, only dimly aware, sees a face he hasn’t seen in ten years but in the occasional dream.

She looks less surprised to see him. “Hi, Jon.” Sansa gives him a small, sad smile. “I need your help with something.”

“What are you doing here?” is the first thing Jon blurts out.

Sansa crosses her legs and folds her hands in her lap. “I need your help with something,” she repeats, sounding more confident this time. Like she’s practiced.

“My help?” Then he remembers that all the guys are staring at them with naked interest. He looks around wildly, catches Sam’s eye–and knows, from the look of dawning awareness on Sam’s face, that he’s figured out who the station’s mystery guest is.

“Don’t you all have jobs to do?” Sam says loudly, and the guys scatter, pretending to go about their business while throwing furtive looks at himself and Sansa. Jon loves Sam. He’s going to do Sam’s paperwork for a week. He’s going to make sure Sam always gets the blueberry donut he loves from the box from now on.

“Maybe we could speak privately?” Sansa suggests.

“I’ll find you a room,” Sam assures her, and nope, Jon is not going to do any of those nice things for his partner. Maybe he’ll eat the blueberry donut himself, he thinks mulishly.

They settle into an empty interrogation room, bare concrete and steel everywhere, and he can’t help but notice how uncomfortable she is, how she perches on the edge of the hard seat. Before Jon forgets, he puts on his most threatening face, faces the glass, and jabs in the direction of the door.

“Unless you want to die painfully later,” he adds, “get the fuck out, you crows.”

With nothing else to do, he sits in the chair across from her. He pulls the pen from behind his ear and fiddles with it over the notepad he brought with him, eyeing the blank lines. Gods, she better be here for police stuff.

“What do you want help with?” he asks.

Sansa shifts. He can’t say he’s sorry about how uncomfortable her chair is. “Do you remember Jeyne Poole, from when we were kids?”

“She’s the one you used to call Arya names with, is that right?”

He hears her sigh and doesn’t look up. “Yes, that’s her.”

“What about her?”

“She’s missing.”

“How long has she been gone?” he asks automatically.

“Longer than forty-eight hours.” Her voice is firm. “Quite a bit longer. Three weeks.”

Awareness dawns. “You’ve already talked to the police about this. This isn’t our jurisdiction, is it?” Of course it isn’t. Neither Jeyne Poole nor Sansa live anywhere near here. She must have driven up.

She leans forward, trying to catch his eye, but he keeps his gaze resolutely down. “I’ve been trying to see you, Jon. To talk to you about this.” She reaches across the table and touches him lightly on the arm. He jerks away, and tries to cover it by putting his hands in his lap.

“There’s nothing we can do, though,” he says, as calmly as he can. She’s no one to him, just another civilian. “If it’s not in our jurisdiction, we can’t act.”

Sansa’s voice rises. “They won’t _do_ anything! They’re all in the Boltons’ pockets, I know they are, and I know this has something to do with them.”

“Do you have any hard evidence?”

Her silence is all the answer he needs. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. There’s nothing to do.”

“Jon, please, I know we’re not on the best of terms, but I didn’t know anyone else who could help.” She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears.

“But I can’t.” Taking a deep breath, he walks over to the door and opens it for her. He can tell she’s staring at him for a long moment, though the gesture can’t be any clearer.

She stands up, but doesn’t leave, instead coming close to him. He catches her eye on accident. A mistake. Her eyelashes are wet, and her eyes are accusing. It makes his gut roil.

“Sam will show you out,” he adds, and she shoots him a furious look.

He closes the door behind her with a final click–he doesn’t slam it, he’s not a kid anymore–and rests his forehead against it before rejoining the world he’s cultivated for himself, the one that doesn’t have Sansa fucking Stark anywhere in it at all.

* * *

Mercifully, Jon is almost immediately sent out on a call, a report of a midnight intruder made by a neighbor. Sinking into the routine of work pushes everything else out of his mind. There’s nothing like work for clearing his head, focusing on what matters. By the time he gets back to the station at 2:30, Jon has convinced himself that everything is back to normal. Status quo restored.

Sam is waiting for him when he gets back, with an accusing glare to boot. He pulls Jon into an interrogation room. The same one.

Jon manages to return the glare for all of three seconds before snapping. “What is it?”

“I spoke with your … visitor.”

Jon hears the words unspoken. _Cousin. Soulmate._ Whatever the fuck that means.

“So?”

“You weren’t very kind to her.”

Sam has a way of understating things while at the same time giving them a painful heft. From others, “not very kind” is hardly even a criticism. From the lips of Pyp or Green or Captain Mormont, it could even be a compliment admiring someone’s determination to find the truth in the face of a recalcitrant suspect.

From Sam, it’s absolute condemnation.

Funny. Jon’s eyes are burning. Lack of sleep, no doubt. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Sam is unfazed. “Maybe it’s not. But it turned out she had something to say.”

_You can’t be my … This is a mistake. There’s been a horrible mix-up._

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Jon says sourly.

Sam taps his pad, which Jon hadn’t noticed when he first came in. “She has reason to think the Boltons might be involved in the disappearance of her friend.”

Just a misunderstanding, then. Sam is sharp, easily the smartest person Jon knows, but he has a soft heart. He rushes to reassure his partner. “She doesn’t have any evidence.”

Sam says, almost gently, “Nothing concrete. But circumstantial, yes.”

Something freezes over in Jon. “She didn’t say anything about that to me.”

“Did you let her?”

Those four words make Jon’s jaw clench powerfully. He wants to speak. He wants to leap to his own defense. The thoughts fly through his mind. _I heard her out. I asked her if she had evidence. She said she didn’t. I did my due diligence._ But he can’t unglue his jaw. If he does, something will …

Sam keeps speaking, and the hardest thing Jon has ever done in his life is listen.

* * *

She closes the door in his face, after answering his knock on her motel door.

Jon flexes his jaw, reminds himself this is what he expected, and prepares to try again.

Before he can rap his knuckles again, he hears the rattling of the chain and drops his hand to his side, where it dangles awkwardly.

The door widens a crack, and she appears in the gap, drawn and red-eyed. She doesn’t say anything, just watches and waits with wary suspicion. She’s not going to make this easy on him, apparently. No matter. He already knows what he needs to say.

It’s been sitting on his chest, a heavy guilty weight, since he spoke to Sam. That was some hours ago. He came as soon as his shift was over.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” He says the words quickly, forcing them out. They’re honest but still difficult, as he can’t help but chafe at being the one apologizing to her.

“Officer Tarly told me he would look into it,” she says finally, flatly.

Jon runs a hand through his hair. “He said he would help,” he agrees cautiously.

She regards him for another long moment. What’s coming up in her estimation of him, he can’t tell. Despite his antipathy, he finds he’s anxious for her forgiveness, shifting his feet on the motel ledge. He holds up the drink tray and paper bag.

“I brought coffee and donuts,” he adds. “Lemon-filled, right?”

Jon remembers, barely. It feels like information from another lifetime. She hesitates only a few seconds longer before pushing the door further open and turning away. It’s a demonstration of appalling manners, nothing at all like what he remembers. Either she’s changed profoundly, or she’s still upset with him.

Well, that’s fine. He doesn’t need her to like him. As long as they can focus on her friend, they can work together.

He shoulders his way in and kicks the door shut behind him, shrouding them both in momentary half-darkness before she flicks on a lamp.

When Sansa sits, she makes a movement like she’s going to draw her knees up to her chest, but then her feet fall back to the floor and she crosses her legs instead. It’s a little slip, but it’s telling. Body language can be very revealing, Jon’s found on the job. He pulls the second chair around so that he’s sitting directly across from her rather than next to her, with the tiny breakfast nook table between them. From the corner of his eye he sees her shoulders relax minutely.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I brought everything,” he says, indicating the cream and sweeteners.

Sansa takes her time choosing among them with a careful, precise consideration that borders on maddening. He removes his own kolache from the bag before turning the opening to face her. She’s still quiet. He doesn’t know whether she’s just tired or reluctant to speak to him. He’s half annoyed already by her mute antagonism, but he pushes the feeling away. _This isn’t about her or me or what happened. This is just another case._ He’s determined this time to mean it.

“I had an officer laugh in my face when I first reported her missing,” she says finally, after doctoring her coffee to the point of unrecognizability. An implicit reprimand hides in her words.

“Sam said she had a reputation.”

Sansa looks at him then, really looks, sharp and betrayed. “That’s completely irrelevant!”

“I know.” Jon’s seen enough of that kind of thing. “But she was known to the officers there? Is that why--?”

She shakes her head. “Not at all. They--well, they asked me if she was in the habit of meeting lots of guys from the internet, when I told them about Ramsay. I told them she was very social, she liked to go to parties. She was a dancer in college, you know . . . that kind of dancer, I mean. Only for a little while, when her scholarship ran out. I told them, just in case it was one of the guys she said used to harass her at work.” Her pinched expression is miserably guilty, and her shoulders slump inward. “They told me she was probably on a bender, that they didn’t have the time or resources to waste on a . . .”

“They were shitty,” says Jon when she trails off.

She trails her index finger through the top of her coffee and contemplates the ripples. “So you’re going to help?”

“Yeah. I took the week off.”

Her finger stills. “Really?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I have some vacation days stacked up,” he mumbles.

Sansa’s lips purse as she studies him. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We haven’t found her.”

* * *

The cold blue light of the early morning gives way to gold and then white. They talk through it all, going over the details of Jeyne’s disappearance, interrupted only by her tiny, precise bird-bites of donut. Jon focuses on his notes, zoning into his work, glancing up only periodically when she pauses or when he needs clarification. He presses her for details about other possible suspects in addition to this Ramsay Bolton.

“Just in case,” he tells the stubborn creasing of her brow. The crease doesn’t go away, but she does relent, with a pointed sigh that sounds so suddenly familiar it makes him jump, like a ghost has reached over his shoulder.

When he’s not getting anything new out of her, he stands, and she rises with him, hands folded, polite again.

“I’ll get some help. Outside help,” he clarifies. “I know a P.I. in your area. I don’t have as much experience with missing-person stuff as you might like.”

His words are a warning, a hedge against too much hope. Sansa doesn’t blink, just nods. “I’m grateful for any help you can provide.”

It’s like having double vision. The young Sansa he remembers would have either expressed boundless optimism in the face of such a caution, or perhaps disappointment in his limits. At some moments this Sansa seems just like her, at others a total stranger.

“Her name is Asha. Theon’s sister, I don’t know if you ever met . . . I’ll give her a call today and let her know we’re coming. She might know something about these Boltons, if we’re lucky.”

Sansa waves a hand. “Money’s no object. There’s plenty left in my trust. I’m happy to pay her fees, if she’s worth it.”

“She’s one of the best.”

“When do you want to leave?”

“In a few hours? Give me a little while to do some research and get ready.” And maybe take a nap. At the thought, he has to suppress a yawn.

She nods again, though this time it looks like she wants to say something. She doesn’t, though. It’s not until he’s halfway to the door that he hears, “Jon?” said in an uncertain voice that makes him tense.

Jon turns. “Did you forget something?”

Her manicured fingertips drum on her arm. “Will I see you tonight?”

Her question throws him. _Didn’t we just talk about this?_ It takes him a few moments to realize what she’s asking. When he does, he freezes. He’s been so focused on _working_ with her, on being professional, on the case, that he hasn’t thought at all about _dreaming_ with her.

“I …” He falters, a rabbit faced with a highbeam. “I don’t …”

“It will be difficult to work together if we’re on different schedules,” she points out gently.

“I suppose you’re right,” he says on autopilot, his mind whirring. “I’m used to the way I do things, though.”

She graciously accepts this empty non-reply, and then he finds himself outside in the harsh daylight of high noon, squinting.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

**Author's Note:**

> I changed Val to Asha because I just really like writing Asha, so Asha's our new P.I.


End file.
